<                             Friend                             (i)
———————————————————-
                                        ­                        (Hey)>
<(Hey, hows it going?)
                                             (Pretty good, I’ve)
                                             (been writing a   )
                                             (lot of poetry...  )>
<(. . .)

"Are you really sure you'll do it?"

"Yes. I've wanted to do it for so long now."

"Yeah."

"But then what?"

"And then, me?"

And, that moment, when we stared into each other's eyes, I knew it was meant to be.

My scars are finally starting to heal a little,
But my veins are itching for more.

So, here's another thing I've written to you. I've filled pages and pages, and, I kept a record. It's calles: "All the things I wanted to tell you, but never did." Usually, I call it "All and more." I just read one of 'em back. And I still can't explain the anger I felt. "3 months you've been posessing my mind." I still feel the anger from when I wrote that down. I was so mad. Not at you, but at myself. At the world. For letting me feel this way, and allowing myself to feel this. I used to think you were just a wave of lurid inspiration. But you weren't. You weren't just a wave, you were the entire ocean. And everyone knows how beautiful the ocean is.